


reflections II

by halfaday



Series: rochan smooches [4]
Category: SF9 (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Religious Themes, physical and emotional hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfaday/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: mini compilation of rochan kissing in different universes!included in this package: letting your partner heal your emotional scars; having a wannabe prince around while you're sick; thinking about your alien partner; worrying about your childhood 'best friend'; listening to your demonic bf as he describes hell to you
Relationships: Kang Chanhee | Chani/Kim Seokwoo | Rowoon
Series: rochan smooches [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479164
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	reflections II

**Author's Note:**

> drabbles mostly from the beginning of 2020 (march), all inspired by [this prompt list](https://yuckwhump.tumblr.com/post/190405149090/29-day-whump-challenge-ive-put-together-a-list-of) apart from the last one. this one, which was first written one year ago (hello, reflections), was back then inspired by #41 of [this prompt list](https://kashimalin-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/178524845380/50-types-of-kisses-writing-prompts) — it’s the only one i wrote recently (and whose prompt i completely forgot about until i was done).
> 
> i won’t be specifying which prompt fits which drabble, but as always, [this link](https://galatewoon.tumblr.com/r2d2) will redirect you to a list of cw + details about each drabble. enjoy.

1\. Chanhee tugs on his hand, shakes his head in reply.

'Really?' Seokwoo insists — hiding his face out of habit, nibbling on his bottom lip out of fear. This is so different from usual, so alike life before the circus found him: the woods they walk in smell like freedom, and the hand in his feels — caring, warm.

 _Yes,_ Chanhee signs, _really._

He's stopped walking — is looking up, at him, eyes slightly narrowed, as if he cannot understand why Seokwoo keeps on insisting like this. He does, of course — but as a free man, as a child who was accepted rather than mocked and kicked out — the remaining dose of insecurity, that makes Seokwoo's world go round, is nowhere to be found, and makes its absence known during such times. It always makes Seokwoo shy, always has him… feeling even more insecure, like he's not made for this kind of life, for this world.

But Chanhee always catches on, and makes sure to correct that.

 _You're nothing like a monster,_ he signs, slowly, making sure Seokwoo gets the time to catch on to what he says. _W_ _hat do you think of me?_

'Well, you're…' Seokwoo hesitates, looks Chanhee up and down. Feels really stupid for not having an eloquent speech to say, instead replying with a, 'You're nice. Sweet. Beautiful.'

Chanhee grins, softly, looks away for a brief moment — collects himself, then speaks again.

 _We're the same, you and I._ He repeats the last part a few times, makes sure Seokwoo understands the juxtaposition. _It doesn't matter what we have, or who we are. We get treated the same._

He points to the scar beneath the corner of his jaw, grazes Seokwoo's chin with a finger. Makes a point of looking at him, and only him — erases the rest of the world, and makes only this moment worth it.

 _If I'm nice — sweet — beautiful, then so are you._ You _are beautiful, too._

Seokwoo lowers his gaze, stares at the ground. Shakes his head, disagrees — gives Chanhee a sad smile, retorts,

'I'm not. Have you seen me?'

Burn marks all over his body, that have disfigured his face, his chest, his hand; _everything,_ visible and invisible. Scars that have been there for a long time, that are now part of himself — that are _not_ part of others, and that set him apart, that have been keeping him for themselves for years. He's not attractive, has never been — has only ever been a freak, an attraction to look at. He's human — but a botched one.

But Chanhee disagrees: he frowns, glares, looks at Seokwoo as if he'd betrayed him — he steps closer and pokes his chest, shakes his head vigorously.

_I am seeing you! Every day, since March 3rd. I am seeing you. Looking at you. Finding you beautiful._

'That's… that's subjective,' Seokwoo mutters.

Chanhee waves a finger in front of him, furious; refuses all debate.

_That's not the point! That's not the point at all! You find yourself disgusting, you believe you're a monster — isn't this subjective too?_

He taps on Seokwoo's chest, again, fists his shirt and forces him to look at him, his hands. He signs quickly, angrily — as if his heart were in his hand, and it is what dictated his words.

_You're building your identity, your everything with structures others have given you. Thinking you're a freak, a monster. Have you ever looked at yourself with your eyes? Without thinking their thoughts? Look at me. Look at me. Hear me out._

He pats his own chest, points at Seokwoo — signs that he finds him beautiful, and repeats it, again, and again.

_All these people that have looked down on you do not deserve a place in your head, where they get to choose your words and hurt you with them. They do not deserve anything. You're beautiful. I've seen it. I'm seeing it! You're beautiful. Not at all like a monster. All like a human being._

Chanhee ends his sentence with grace, fingers joining together before his cheek — coming to rest on Seokwoo's chest, and tugging on his shirt — begging Seokwoo to agree, and finally see what he calls the truth.

 _You and I,_ Chanhee signs, slower, gentler — eyes losing the sharpness of their angry fire, and only gazing at Seokwoo with a tender flame, a loving spark. _W_ _e're humans. No matter what. If I am beautiful, why shouldn't you be, too?_

Seokwoo can think of a million answers, all crashing against each other in his head — none of them his, all of them remarks that came out of someone's mouth. He remains quiet.

 _Come here,_ Chanhee signs. _Let me kiss you._

Seokwoo obeys — bends down, just a little, just enough to give him access. Chanhee tiptoes, peppers kisses on his mark, from his burnt temple to his jaw — strays away from the uninjured part of his face, to kiss the corner of his lips; what was once the edge of his hair; his eye. He kisses his forehead, then the tip of his nose — locks an arm around his neck, and signs with his free hand, towards him — makes a gesture that covers Seokwoo's entire face, splayed fingers that become a closed shape, an imitation of a beak facing him that then opens up. Seokwoo smiles, touched — wants to deny it, but Chanhee's sign, Chanhee's expression as he does it, is stronger than every negative thing he's ever stored in his mind.

'Like that?' he asks, attempting to imitate him — succeeding, if the vigorous nods he does is anything to go by. Chanhee accompanies him, accentuates the last part, makes sure that Seokwoo does it too.

'I like this.' Seokwoo repeats the sign over and over again, laughs as he parts his fingers at the end. 'It's pretty. Is the end supposed to be a flower blooming?'

Chanhee shrugs — makes a vertical beak with his hands and spreads his fingers before his nose before pointing to him.

'I'm the flower,' Seokwoo translates — most definitely blushes, and wishes he could hide. Can't, so instead he squeezes Chanhee's waist, kisses his gushing hands. 'I thought I was human?'

 _In my heart, you're a flower,_ Chanhee argues — cutely, making his _not my business_ face, shrugging to accompany the facial expression. _And your bloom is eternal._

A load of barnacles, would say the circus owner, just like he always did when he was presented with poetry — but Seokwoo isn't him, and he's charmed by Chanhee's words.

'Thank you,' he whispers — wrapping himself around Chanhee, like a tree in need of an axis — like a flower around the sun, so that it never dies. He pecks Chanhee on the forehead, and holds him tightly — against his neck, he feels a pair of lips, kissing him oh ever so lightly. He smiles, and traces the sign Chanhee taught him on his back.

_Beautiful._

His fingers part to make the meaning bloom, and the wind catches it. It rises with it, high, higher — until the world stops it, but Seokwoo knows — the sun will protect it dearly, until the end of time. He forgets about his mark, and becomes who he wants to be.

2\. 'Honestly, I wouldn't recommend doing that.'

Seokwoo is standing by his bed, thinking of kissing him. Thinking: it's written all over his face, his parted lips — echoes in Chanhee's mind as the thought disappears. A pretty picture, reminiscent of the prince pulling Snow White out of her coma with a kiss — Seokwoo holding his hands, and giving him true love's peck to cure his nausea. Sweet, superb if they were in a filmmaker's mind. But as it is, they're in real life, and Chanhee prefers keeping his vomit to himself, thin layer of it on his lips rather than on Seokwoo's.

'I wasn't going to do it.' Seokwoo sits down, by his legs. Looks at him, then takes one of his hands in his, intertwines their fingers. The perfect prince. 'I was just thinking.'

'Thinking is a lot, around me.'

Seokwoo wants to roll his eyes but does not — instead keeps on gazing at him, like Chanhee is on his deathbed and this is his last chance to tell him that actually, the cereals in the cat's bowl were his mistake, he didn't mean to lie for three years. He opens his mouth.

'I miss you.'

Chanhee sighs, does roll his eyes. No admission of guilt — only sappy feelings.

'You're literally next door. Next room.'

'But I miss you.' Seokwoo shifts, manages to find space on the bed for his long, long legs — sort of crushes Chanhee's knee in the process, but he's cute: Chanhee forgives him. 'I miss you.'

'All you have to do is come over. Get a peek of my face.' Chanhee — plays with their linked hands, treats Seokwoo's as if it were an ancient artifact, inspecting it meticulously, caressing it carefully. 'I'm right here.'

'But you're sick. I'm afraid I'll bother you.'

'And yet here you are.'

Seokwoo stares at their hands, doesn't reply — Chanhee catches memories, the TV being on while coughs emerge from a room; himself, lying in bed, sleeping soundly; the hospital, white, bright, where they both looked like children, one swallowed whole by the bed he lay in, the other preoccupied by worries, sneaky thoughts that didn't deserve to exist. What has started to become old memories — but it seems that for Seokwoo, it's as if it had happened yesterday.

'Hey.' Chanhee pokes Seokwoo's cheek with his free hand, cups his face when he looks up. 'I'm fine. This is just a seafood problem. I'll be back on my feet in no time.'

'I know. I just…' _I get reminded of it. I don't want to lose you._ 'I just worry, I guess.'

Chanhee smiles.

'You always do. Number one overthinker on Earth. But I wouldn't have it any other way.'

He strokes Seokwoo's cheek — places his hand on his own chest, where his heart beats in a regular, even rhythm — lets him listen, hopes that what he hears comforts him. It does: warmth blooms in every corner of Seokwoo's mind, and his lips stretch into a smile. Most certainly — he hears the stutter that follows this.

'Can I stay with you?'

There's laundry to do, dishes to wash — Chanhee sees it in Seokwoo's mind, watches it being dumped far away from him. He's endearingly, foolishly clingy: unable to spend a few hours without Chanhee, wanting to make sure he's safe. Worrying a little too much, and yet —

Chanhee lifts the covers at his left.

'Only if you allow me to nap all day.'

Seokwoo is by his side in a heartbeat, curling up to him, tracing circles around his navel (a remedy to nausea, passed onto him by his father).

'Nap all you want. Rest all you want. I'm here.'

Chanhee doesn't remember the prince being this cheesy in Snow White, doesn't remember being this affected by him — but here he is, shaking his head and grumbling Seokwoo is being too much — secretly pleased about this all, delighted to let the house chores wait. He tucks himself into Seokwoo's embrace, and closes his eyes.

He can see all of Seokwoo's thoughts — he tunes them out, and instead listens to the faint heartbeat he can hear. Even, in perfect health — his, for now, supposedly forever.

'So am I,' he whispers. 'So am I.'

He falls asleep.

3\. He'd told himself this was a one time thing; had promised the portrait of Old Ma Dan that he would not go further than the initial plan; had sworn to the wooden cross representing a savior he did not believe in that his sin would not happen again — had breached all of these things, one by one at first, and then all together, all at once. Where he'd once sworn to keep his distance, where he'd once sworn to be untouched, where he'd sworn he'd keep everything to himself — there had been nothing but violations, feet returning to the same spot every day, and hands learning to dance on him — hands that did not belong to him, from the very beginning. Perhaps he'd given up when he'd first met eyes with Seokwoo — perhaps it would have been easier if the rumours were true, and touching what the masses usually called an _alien_ indeed paralysed you, enabled them to capture you, to take you away forever.

Chanhee isn't too sure anymore, thinks he's crossed too many lines to know. Seokwoo's hands feel heavenly on him, even if they're two fingers short, and the length of them is uncanny — they caress him just like the way he'd imagined them the very first time he'd dreamt of him; and when they do not, they make place for Seokwoo's lips, peppering kisses here and there, treating Chanhee's body like the temple his grandmother once said it was. Just like the way his eyes do, examining him always, always, always; watching everything he does and catching onto the slightest thing; looking even when Chanhee has his back to him, is doing something else. That's the thing, with Seokwoo: he's amazing at making you feel loved; great at catching your heart without even knowing it; superbly skilled at making every destruction of oath worth it. He's impossibly good at being a necessary addiction, a poison _de rigueur —_ and Chanhee is drunk on him, drunk on the discreet taste of death that always hits the back of his throat when he's nearby, kissing him, holding him. His grandmother would be disappointed, would probably curse him to the end of hell for a few years — but this doesn't really matter to Chanhee, not anymore — not when the loss of sight that comes with sinning again and again only shows him a brighter world, not when breaking every rule, every word he's given feels this good — not when Seokwoo, staring at the night sky until then, turns around to greet him, and gives back tenfold everything Chanhee _wishes_ to let out. Hell, Tartarus, whatever Old Ma Dan used to call it depending on the night — all of them, all of it, is wiped out with a single brush of Seokwoo's hand — fingers, to Chanhee's face, grazing his lips, combing his hair back. 

'Miss-ed you.'

Seokwoo kisses him good evening, just like he always does — later kisses him _I love you,_ after countless kisses without any greeting in them, acts more than words — but just as effective, just as intoxicating. Chanhee replies with a kiss of his own, cranes his neck to let Seokwoo lick a trail down his throat — is too tired for another round, but Seokwoo knows, is just doing that to compensate for everything he did not do while they were making out, making love. He mutters things in his mother tongue, a few words here and there that Chanhee has learnt to recognise; to even understand, for a few of them. _Beautiful — lovely — mine — yours._ Words of adoration, strung together like waves, flowing out of Seokwoo's mouth with a regular rhythm. Chanhee is convinced that he's a poet on his planet, that he's either a critically acclaimed minstrel or the incarnation of Bragi himself — and Chanhee, mere mortal, is much too vulnerable to his charms, would dive into his arms a thousand times. Seokwoo turns everything into art with his mouth — he's been working on Chanhee ever since they met, and has never once stopped — he speaks poetry into his existence, again and again and again, and kisses him a million times to craft every detail. And Chanhee feels like a masterpiece in his arms, under his lips, before his eyes — he feels like god's gift to their most deserving Angel, something to be cherished and loved until the end of the time. He feels like poison himself, an irresistible temptation that Seokwoo takes in without a second thought, without even reconsidering.

'Love you,' Seokwoo says against his lips, in his mother tongue, then in Chanhee's, repeating it again, and again, hammering the point home, into Chanhee's heart. His hand slides to his hip, and then back to his ribs — accepts Chanhee's when it requests to intertwine their fingers together, and settles on the ground, the grass, damp with the few droplets of rain that fell earlier, home to their embraces and confessions.

Chanhee stretches his legs, his free arm — wraps it around Seokwoo's neck, and brings him closer for a last set of kisses, whispers that he loves him a few times too many.

'You are an entire world,' he says, 'worth discovering, cherishing. I cherish you. I adore you.'

Seokwoo smiles, probably understands half of it — but Chanhee's kisses are getting the meaning across, and it's all that matters. One day, they'll interact perfectly, fluent in each other's language, and able to switch back and forth. For now — they're learning, and sight, touch are the next best things. Heavenly things — Chanhee doesn't mind taking forever to learn, doesn't mind taking it slow.

'I love you,' he says, a thousand times, and yet not enough to fully convey his feelings. 'I love you.'

He kisses Seokwoo, once, twice, thrice, until he falls asleep — is kissed good night when he does, and smiles, at the thought he will be kissed good morning when he wakes.

Hell can wait: for now, by his side, holding him preciously, cherishing him dearly — Heaven triumphs, and he loses himself in his embrace.

4\. This would be funny if it were another time. Like the day they ate three burgers each and spent the rest of the day holding their painful stomachs, or the time they did a water fight all afternoon, during the heat stroke when they were younger. The night they watched romcom after romcom, or the day they spent collecting dead butterflies (which, at the time, abounded in the cave by Grandma's house). The countless times they played around in summer, or the more recent ones, during which they simply talked and talked and talked.

But today isn't another time, and this - this situation, isn't funny at all. The bruises that cover Chanhee's face, knuckles, are anything but hilarious, and Seokwoo can only find worry as he stares at him.

'I'm not gonna drown, you know.'

His head, small, more purple than beige, red (the usual colour of his cheeks), is the only thing popping out of the water, almost as if it were floating. And Seokwoo swears — on any other night, this would be hilarious. But this is _today,_ happening right now — and the only thing he can do, is mumble that he knows — rest his cheek on the edge of the bathtub, and stare at Chanhee anyway, because he's scared. He likes this floating head — fears coming back to it breathless, soaked with water. Won't ever admit it, because there are things you should never confess to your best friend, but — the thought is there.

'Stop looking at me like that. I feel like I'm gonna be served to god as a sacrifice.'

'God does not take sacrifices,' Seokwoo corrects him, out of habit — gazes at the slender fingers holding the edge of the tub, near his cheek, wonders just how and why they're the ones punching others, and not his. He has bigger hands, stronger fists — why is it that Chanhee is the one who's hurt, and not him? Why is it that Chanhee, skinny, frail — precious — is the one sitting there? It doesn't make sense. Shouldn't be real.

'You look at me like he does.' 

Chanhee sounds reproachful, upset — looks the part, slightly. Seokwoo apologises.

'I don't mean it like that,' he murmurs. 'I'm worried, is all.'

'You shouldn't be.'

Chanhee looks at the water, at the wall at his right — looks at him, directly into his eyes, and sits up. Winces as he does so, but he forbids Seokwoo to word his worries with a single glance, and Seokwoo — Seokwoo obeys. Instead lets him lean forward, just a little too close, just like always, and remains quiet, only attempts to swallow the lump in his throat. And he doesn't manage to, but tonight, after all, is nothing but pain and fear. He ignores it, as best as he can.

'You look at me as if I had the plague. As if I were dying. Stop doing that.'

Chanhee brushes a few strands of hair away from his temple, pulls back when he realises the gesture leaves a wet path on him. Seokwoo shuts his eyes, briefly — murmurs it's okay. Only opens his eyes when Chanhee's fingers are on him again, and he waits, for him to continue.

'I'm not made of glass. I know I look like it, but I don't. I can handle my own battles.'

'This is not a battle,' Seokwoo retorts, almost immediately. 'This is… this is much worse than a mere battle.'

 _This is war,_ he means to say — but the memory of him whispering it ages ago, when Chanhee's wounds were much less apparent and much less worrying, makes its way into his mind. This wording isn't allowed anymore — not when tomorrow could be deadly. Not when wording the idea enables it to become a curse.

Chanhee's caresses become slower — travel all the way to the crown, the back of Seokwoo's head. He has to stretch his arm a little for this — sprinkles the floor, Seokwoo's knee as he does so. But Seokwoo doesn't mind.

'I know you're not fragile. But you're… you're bones, and organs, and — these break, you know? They're not known to be replaced easily. And that's if they're replaceable, because, you know — I'm sure you do — some of them-'

He's silenced by two fingers, holding his lips together. For a few seconds, only — then Chanhee releases his hold on his lips, turns it into an absentminded caress of his thumb.

'I know,' he says, going up, and up, cupping Seokwoo's face — smiling softly, lovingly as Seokwoo visibly melts into the touch.

'I wish you did something with that knowledge.' 

Chanhee leans forward, and takes his other hand out of water — brushes Seokwoo's hair back with it, most definitely soaks his entire scalp — traps him, a little, just enough for him to be forced to look at him. He's pretty, even like this — wet hair clinging to his head, purple circling his left eye, red dotting the skin below his neck. It's unfair: he doesn't care, not like Seokwoo. Or well, he does care, but — he always shrugs it off, and acts like he doesn't. Seokwoo wishes he didn't, wishes he told him everything — wishes he were more than a simple spectator to this, wishes he could do more than simply stare and worry.

'I'm sorry. For not being a good person. For making you worry and keeping on doing it anyway.'

Chanhee strokes his cheek as he talks — Seokwoo holds his hand, and kisses the palm of it — lets the hand travel on his face, and cover it almost entirely, fingers reaching for his hair, the bottom part resting on his mouth. He closes his eyes, sighs — gives another kiss to Chanhee's hand, and then another — another — another. Only reaches for nearby spots that haven't been touched at first, then proceeds to simply move Chanhee's hand on his face, slowly, slowly reaching up, until he has kissed every centimetre, every millimetre of his hand — until it is all his, all safe, all protected by his lips, and finally he can lay it on his neck, where his skin is always warm and his pulse keeps Chanhee safe, just as alive as himself.

'I deserve much more than a sorry.'

Chanhee — shifts, in the tub — is kneeling, when Seokwoo opens his eyes. He's bending down, reaching for him, like a mermaid tempted by earth. A mermaid that isn't happy in his own world: it has hurt him many times, has rejected him on much too many occasions. Seokwoo imagines he would like it better on earth, would surely enjoy the taste of life there. He wishes he would. Wishes he stepped out and forgot about what reigns underwater.

'Do you forgive me anyway?'

Chanhee's lips brush against his forehead — plants the lightest kiss there, a simple puff of air against his skin. He slides his free hand between the edge of the tub and Seokwoo's cheek — tilts his face, and Seokwoo sits up, to grant him comfort, ease. 

He maps Seokwoo's face with his lips — heads down and down and down to the tip of his nose, then takes right, pecks his cheekbone. Remains there, and doesn't say anything — thinks a lot, but keeps it all to himself. Seokwoo hurts, just a little. Reaches for Chanhee's neck with his free hand nevertheless, and cups it anyway; imagines doing so erases just a bit of the evil lurking underwater.

 _There,_ he tells himself, and he falls into place with Chanhee, noses almost touching, lips brushing against each other as the both of them breathe — as Seokwoo whispers that _yes, he forgives him._

'You mean a lot,' he says quietly after a quick kiss — Chanhee welcomes his words with a kiss of his own, slower, longer.

'I know.' He kisses him, again — sighs against his lips, and the hand on Seokwoo's neck, the hand on his cheek — they cling to him like they need him to stand upright, like he's the axis to their world. Seokwoo applies the lightest pressure on Chanhee's neck — promises with his lips that earth will wait as long as he needs, that he shall never become ruins. He shall not crumble under the pressure of time — he does not have the right to. 'I know.'

 _And I'm sorry,_ he doesn't say — but Seokwoo feels it in the way he kisses, slow and gentle; desperate and breathless — pouring his regrets into each brush, each part of his lips, bitterness clinging to every corner of his mouth. This is a taste Seokwoo knows by heart by now, but he kisses back anyway, kisses back every time — forgives Chanhee, always, and files everything away, in a corner, where it does not matter.

'It's okay,' he whispers — Chanhee leans just a little more forward, and thanks him with his lips. Seokwoo holds him steadily, as always — and as Chanhee tentatively makes a step towards the shore, he encourages him with a kiss.

At some point, it will be okay.

5\. A tender finger traces his cheekbone, the contour of his ear; heads south, and continues down the line of his jaw, his throat, his shoulder; only stops when fabric gets in the way and it is easier for Seokwoo to kiss him again. For the nth time today (always), but Chanhee doesn't mind, at all, and he lets himself be loved — kisses back, eventually, and it's a while later, with his own fingers tangled in Seokwoo's hair, that Seokwoo speaks again:

'You would really love Hell,' he murmurs, eyes set in Chanhee's, not once letting them go — his wandering hand now firmly on his waist, and kissing him again, fleetingly. 'I'm sure of it.'

 _Hell is freedom,_ he adds, toying with a strand of Chanhee's hair with his other hand, caressing his nape as silence settles between them — until Chanhee breaks it, and his entire being freezes, listening to his simple request,

'Describe it to me.'

Hell is freedom, Seokwoo repeats — inching closer to Chanhee, and taking a seat before him, left leg crossed and right one stretched, tracing half of a circle around him — laying a hand on his knee, and caressing it absentmindedly as he opens his mouth again — resumes,

Hell holds no limit, stretches on and on like the universe. Sacred writings will have you believe the opposite, will have you believe Hell is a prison one can never escape from — but they couldn't be more wrong, there couldn't be a bigger pile of lies. Hell is infinite, and it is welcoming — it is home, for many — and when it is not, if negotiated correctly, it can be a simple pied-à-terre, a visit that does not last, that does not repeat itself. _If negotiated correctly,_ Seokwoo repeats — but its ruler and their servants are always willing to listen and help out, he continues, and being sent there is never the end of all things.

'It isn't quite the damnation your aunt wishes for you to meet,' he laughs, and his hand travels down, up — it comes to hold Chanhee's, gently, and fills the empty spaces between his fingers.

It is rather the opposite, he says, and his voice drops to a whisper — the world around them seems to disappear, and Chanhee holds their linked hands to his cheek, leans into them as he listens. 

(He makes Seokwoo's heart flutter, but he has no idea — unaware, he stares — and, blessed by a love so genuine he would prefer death over its loss, Seokwoo, just a little more enamored, continues,)

Hell is colourful. Unlike the blazing red picture artists and men of faith have painted time and time again, unlike the darkness many authors and fanatics have proclaimed as truth — like the brightest rainbow one could ever see in their life, like the palest spectrum of colour one can ever witness -

Hell comes in all shades, all colours — it comes in every way possible, and impossible — knows no limit, here too, and graces whoever walks into it with a spark that cannot be found anywhere else.

'There is suffering, of course,' Seokwoo says, 'but it is bestowed upon the ones who wish for it, and those who deserve it, only. None else.'

An unrepentant murderer, who found joy in their sprees in life and yearns to inflict pain upon others even in death, will be tortured for centuries, millenniums; bathed in the darkest, most painful lake that exists; burnt by the hottest fire known to the place — until their soul has been cleansed and what remains of them is a new beginning, someone that only yearns to do good.

It's how it works for every sinner, every person who willingly causes pain and chaos.

'But people wrongfully accused of causing desolation are exempt of this,' Seokwoo whispers, thumb stroking Chanhee's cheek, and he smiles at memories from another time, at centuries-old images, sensations, that have been locked deep within his heart — he leans in, and rests his head in the crook of Chanhee's neck, plants a kiss on the warm skin that oscillates with each heartbeat.

What one wants exists by a dozen there, he explains, and he kisses Chanhee's knuckles, just like his once were kissed — places Chanhee's hand on his neck, just where another's once was — wraps his arms around Chanhee's waist, just like he'd once done to one of his dozen — he remains close, still, like he hasn't done for decades, centuries, and confesses things, secrets none has ever heard. 

'You make it sound like paradise isn't worth it,' Chanhee mutters once the telling of his tales is over — caressing his neck with his thumb, gently, for a moment, then wandering back up with his entire hand, shifting so that when he tilts up Seokwoo's head, he is facing him, and he only has to lean in to bridge the gap between their lips. 

_You make it sound unreal,_ he says in-between kisses, as he wraps his arms around Seokwoo's neck, and Seokwoo graces him with the same embrace around his waist — once again, as he pulls away, and all he can do is stare, wait for answer. And

'Maybe it isn't,' Seokwoo finally says, hand riding up his back, then going back down — leaning in to pepper his neck with kisses, and laughing at his own words against his skin. 'Maybe I'm lying. Maybe, perhaps, nothing that I've said is real, and I'm just as much of a sinner as everyone else.'

 _Maybe I'm a liar,_ he concludes, pecking Chanhee on his adam's apple — pulling away to smile at Chanhee, and simply stare at him; to gorge himself on the view he's been granted, and nothing else. Chanhee is human, doesn't glow like angels, or fairies, or witches — but to Seokwoo, he shines even brighter, and - Seokwoo is fine with being the only one who can see it, is fine with being the only one in on the secret.

After all, he is Chanhee's, and any other place on Earth, in Hell, _anywhere,_ isn't worth it — after all, he likes this little world of theirs, and he is content being the one for him.

A finger traces the line of his cheekbone, his jaw — settles on his neck, along with the hand it is attached to — Chanhee kneels between his legs, and rests his forehead against his — he laughs, too, warm air fanning Seokwoo's lips, and caresses his adam's apple.

'You're no liar,' he whispers, 'and you're telling the truth. I know it. I know it.'

(And just like that, Hell gains a hundred more colours, and one of its corners opens up to let the sky peek into its abysses — ten more damned get the punishment life could not grant them, and twenty others lean back into the thrones that were stolen from them.)

(Chanhee shines, bright, and Seokwoo falls a little deeper. And speechless, not knowing how to express himself,)

He pecks him on the lips, gently, shyly — burrows his face in the crook of his neck, and holds him tightly, tightly, tightly.

'Does that mean you will follow me?'

A hand finds its way on his nape, and caresses him gently — Chanhee kisses the crown of his head, and leans against him, holds him just as tenderly — promises eternity, perhaps, in a whispered,

'Maybe.'

And in his arms — Seokwoo glows, too.

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/millesoirees)
> 
> there is also a [secret santa](https://twitter.com/peachjuho/status/1303032400369262593) taking place soon... less than two days left to sign up ^_______^


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